


Fourteen Miles

by opalmatrix



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: Disc_Fest, Crossdressing, Disguise, Gen, Injury, Mentors, Mild Gore, Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen miles is an easy day's march for an army.  For young Froc, it's something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteen Miles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first [Disc Fest](http://disc-fest.dreamwidth.org/). Prompt: _The fourteen miles that Sergeant Jackrum carried General Froc._ Beta by the indispensable trio of **[lady_ganesh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh/)** , **[smillaraaq](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Smillaraaq/pseuds/Smillaraaq)** , and **[carmarthen](http://carmarthen.livejournal.com/)**

### Mile 0

The afternoon sun struck Froc full in the left eye. The right eye was shaded by the blade of a large ax, the edge of which was being pressed into Froc's face by a very large Zlobenian captain. Froc tried to wince away from the heavy blade, but the man's other hand prevented that: his arm might have been made of steel.

"Your commander - where is he?" demanded the Zlobenian.

"Wouldn't tell you if I knew!" Froc's voice was wobbling embarrassingly.

"We'll see about th-ARRRRGGHHH!" said the Zlobenian, puzzlingly, and dropped like a sack of potatoes, taking Froc along with him.

"Well, if it isn't Lieutenant Froc!" said a hearty voice from above.

It was hard to see through the blood from the ax cut. Propped on one elbow, Froc blinked and squinted upward. "S-sergeant Jackrum?"

"Right, sir! Got it in one! Let's get you on your feet, now."

Froc's struggle to the vertical state was considerably hampered by an arrow through the left calf. "Bloody hell," said Sergeant Jackrum. "We need to take care of that before we get too far, don't we? Just step aside here, behind this shed ... ."

The shed was half-burned and still smoking. There were bodies littered about. Some of them wore Borogravian uniforms. "Talkum. And ... Gadgens?" said Froc, hoarsely. "D-dead?" _We've lost. I lost them ... ._

"No time for that now, sir," said Jackrum, sternly, and laid Froc down on some relatively flat ground. The sergeant took off the pack he was wearing on his back, and rifled through it, producing a bundle of more or less clean rags and what looked like a small hatchet. Then he fetched a considerable chunk of a beam from the shed and pushed it next to Froc's injured leg, so that the arrow shaft was resting on it.

"What's that ax for?" whispered Froc.

"No flinchin' now, Lieutenant," said Jackrum. "You was facing a much bigger one just a moment ago. Got to do somethin' about that arrow, don't I? Close your eyes, an' hold still as a corpse."

Froc, confused, did as ordered. There was the sound of an ax hitting wood, and a tearing pain in Froc's leg, and then someone turned out the lights.

### Mile 8

There was birdsong, and a smell of food cooking. Froc's eyes opened to a dewy summer morning and a white blankness off to the right. A moment's exploration with shaking fingers determined that this was a bandage over the ax cut. The leg that had had the arrow through it felt tightly bandaged and was throbbing slightly; Froc looked and found it was propped on what looked to be Jackrum's folded jacket. There were other pains as well, on the right forearm, along the neck on the right, and on the right knee: wounds that Froc did not remember getting.

"Awake, are you?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"How about some grub, then? 'Cos we have here some fine fresh fish, and some not-so-fresh bread - but it's not bad at all. Not one weevil, and no mold what I can see."

Jackrum hoisted Froc to a sitting position, and the world spun around several times, leaving Froc's stomach behind. "I'm ... not hungry, Sergeant."

"Oh, you _will_ eat, Lieutenant. And for why? I'll tell you: we're behind the lines, sir, and they ain't our lines neither. There won't be no more cookin' once the sun is well up, sir, so you'll eat it now. We come seven or eight miles last night, and I reckon we got at least half that still to go. Them Zlobenians are no more'n a mile and a half over there, past that ridge. An' did I mention they has patrols out?"

Jackrum held out the little pan of fried fish, and Froc reached out with shaking fingers to take a piece, and then another, and then managed to choke down a piece of bread. The sergeant handed over a flask of water. "Drink up, sir. We both better drink well while we're in bivvy today - tonight we're crossin' the Valley of Partzh. Not one stream, so they say - dry as a bone, that place."

Froc swallowed obediently. "Jackrum."

"Sir?"

"How many dead?"

"Maybe a dozen and a half, sir. Fortunes of war."

"But ... I thought it was more."

"They got each other out, sir. Did a fine job. Picked up the wounded and went on down the road when they heard the retreat, Espray de corpse - you know what they say."

"But ... I didn't hear a retreat ordered!"

"You 'ad that great ax in your face, sir - don't imagine you were hearin' much right then. I'd lie down if I was you, sir - get some more sleep."

There was no way, thought Froc, that anyone could sleep on the rocky ground, with the birds singing so madly and a leg throbbing like this, but apparently that was wrong, because sleep came in no time at all.

### Mile 11

The night was sultry, and Sergeant Jackrum's rotund body was hard as a rock and hot as a griddle. Every plodding step shook Froc and sent splinters of pain through the wounds. Froc's mouth was dry and sore and stuck open wide, like that of a fish on a sun-baked mud flat. The very air seemed to throb, red and black and sharp as an ax blade. and Froc was slipping, falling ... .

"None of that now," gasped Jackrum. "Hold on, sir!"

 _I can't_ , Froc tried to say, but no words came out.

Jackrum staggered behind some thorny shrubs and lowered Froc to the ground. He felt his patient's forehead and neck. "Ah, that's a fever, for sure. Naught for it - I got to find you some water."

"Partzh ... no water."

"I know where to find some, though."

Froc stared at the sergeant's face, barely visible in the murky night. Jackrum gave his commanding officer that familiar evil grin.

"The Zlobenians're bound to have some, sir. They're no more than a quarter mile off - I can see their fires. Upon my oath, tain't right that they have water to drink while you're goin' thirsty. You just take a little nap, and I'll be back quicker than you can say Bob's your uncle."

 _No,_ Froc tried to say. _Don't go._ But the fat man padded away, nearly silent now that he was unburdened. Froc stared up at the cloudy, dry darkness of the sky. Heat lightning shimmered through the clouds from time to time. Minutes limped slowly past, and Froc began to think that Jackrum must have been taken, and that tomorrow, the Zlobenians would find themselves a dead Borogravian lieutenant in this place. Still, that would be better than a live one. A live one who had lost such a battle ... .

The footsteps were like part of the pounding in Froc's head at first. But eventually there was no mistaking the sound of Jackrum's approach. He was grinning, still - a triumphant grin. "Here you go, sir. Stupid little sentry lad - wasn't paying no mind to what he was about. A nice full bottle he had by him. Yours now, sir. Take it slow."

At another time, in another place, Jackrum would have been describing a crime. But this was war. And Froc's hands were reaching for the bottle, pulled by the promise of water. The sergeant assisted with a sturdy arm behind Froc's back. The flask was a good-sized one, and it was half gone before it occurred to Froc that Jackrum would be the one bearing the burden of the rest of their journey, however long it might be.

"Your turn, now, Sergeant."

"No, sir. Not 'til you're done."

"That's an order, Sergeant!"

Jackrum looked Froc in the eye, considering. Then he chuckled, a wheezy and painful sound. "Tough now, are you, sir? All right, fair's fair. I've never been a donkey-walloper, but I hear that you'd best look after your beast, if you expect to make it home again. I'm your mule tonight, and I will take that drink, sir."

But when he handed the bottle back to Froc, there was still a fair portion of water left. Froc downed it without protest.

### Mile 14

Dawn again, and Froc was shocked to note that they were both still alive. Instead of the chorus of songbirds, the new day brought the hubbub and bustle of an armed camp. Soon Froc was on a pallet in a corner of a hospital tent, with fresh bandages on the wounds and a wet cloth on the forehead and a full water bottle near to hand. From the bits of conversation that filtered in, it seemed that the camp was to move. Froc shuddered, eyes firmly closed.

"Can't say as I blame you for that," said a familiar voice. "Sorry, sir."

Jackrum settled on a camp stool at the foot of the pallet. He had a mug in one hand and a link of sausage in the other. The stool quavered and swayed but decided to stay upright.

"It's not as though it's your fault, Sergeant."

"Ah, but it is. Yours too, I s'pose, sir. We brought the news 'bout where the Zlobenians were last night, and I had a good notion of how many they was, too, after seein' that camp close up. A little reckon-nay-sance, you might say."

"Why aren't we attacking them, then?"

"'Cos the numbers ain't right, nohow, sir. Sometimes you got to give ground, and come back later. Just like that battle two days ago, sir. The trick is knowin' when to retreat."

Froc was silent. Finally: "There was no retreat sounded, was there?"

"The day afore yesterday, you mean, sir?"

"You know what I mean, Sergeant."

Jackrum took a bite of sausage and munched meditatively for a moment. "Funny thing about that, sir," he said, at last. "You've got a way about you - a fellow knows what you're about without you sayin' a word. All the lads felt the same, I s'pose. Anyway, they're all here. All but ten of 'em. Good work, sir."

"You said we'd lost more than a dozen!"

"Wrong about that, wasn't I? I counted 'em all up, just afore I got my breakfast here. They looked out for each other, like you told 'em to, sir. Some of 'em came back and picked up a few lads what weren't quite dead yet, after I got you off the field. They're right at the end of this tent."

"Will they make it?"

"Doctor says so, sir."

Froc's eyes were burning. "Sergeant."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm not the man you think I am."

"We got a few dozen lads who'd argue with you on that, sir."

"Sergeant, my name is - "

A large hand, tasting of sausage, was slapped across his mouth. Froc never saw the man move - he was that fast.

"Softly, now, sir - you're still all feverish."

"Mmmmph ... umph ... eeeve!"

Jackrum sat back and pulled his hand away slowly. "Breathin' all right now, sir?"

"Jackrum," Froc whispered. "My name is Mildred."

"Oh, that," said Jackrum, and retrieved his mug. "I knew about that."

" _How did you know?_ "

"Well, not that it was Mildred. Could've been Gretel. Or Sophy. But I knew."

"But - "

"I had my suspicions, sir. And if I didn't - well, we just traveled fourteen miles together, didn't we? With you on my back the whole time, and half out of your head with fever for the last of it." Jackrum tipped his mug back.

"I ought to resign," Froc said.

"No, sir, with all due respect - you shouldn't ought to."

"Why the devil not?"

"Do you really think any of these other officers are any better'n you are, sir? At least you've learned a thing or three these last couple of days. And d'you really want to leave your lads now? They're asking after you, sir."

"Asking after me?"

"They are indeed. They're ready to go again, if you lead 'em. Espray de corpse, sir. You taught 'em that. Some other officer might lead 'em wrong. But you know you got the chance now to lead 'em right. That's how I see it, sir."

"I - I have to think about it."

Jackrum looked into his mug, shook his head, and rolled to his feet. "You've got until you're ready to march again, at least - Captain."

"You mean 'Lieutenant.'"

"No sir. I said what I mean. I daresay they'll tell you sometime today."

"But I don't deserve -"

"Lads're very proud of you, sir. I should get some sleep now, if I was you. We'll be movin' out in a matter of an hour or two." Jackrum cocked his head toward the entrance of the hospital tent. "Permission to go and get the lads in order, sir?"

"Jackrum," Froc managed, at last.

"Yessir."

"You're still under my command?"

"I am, sir."

"See to our lads, then, Sergeant."

"Yessir!" Jackrum saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and marched out.

Froc closed her eyes. Somewhere else in the tent, someone groaned. The ground was hard and rocky, Froc's leg was still one large burning pain, and the cut on her face throbbed. But Sergeant Jackrum had said she should get some sleep, and she knew what his advice was worth.

So she did.

 


End file.
